1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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